A Question of Residence
I have already described the shall we say jockeying for position before
take-off on the first flight to the moon. As it turned out, the
American, Russian, and British ships landed just about simultaneously.
No one has ever explained, however, why the British ship came back
nearly two weeks after the others.
Oh, I know the official story; I ought to, for I helped to concoct it.
It is true as far as it goes, but it scarcely goes far enough.
On all counts, the joint expedition had been a triumphant success.
There had been only one casualty, and in the manner of his death
Vladimir Surov had made himself immortal. We had gathered knowledge
that would keep the scientists of Earth busy for generations, and that
would revolutionise almost all our ideas concerning the nature of the
universe around us. Yes, our Sve months on the moon had been well
spent, and we could go home to such welcomes as few heroes had ever had
before.
However, there was still a good deal of tidying up to be done. The
instruments that had been scattered all over the lunar landscape were
still busily recording, and much of the information they gathered could
not be automatically radioed back to Earth. There was no point in all
three of the expeditions staying on the moon to the last minute;
the personnel of one would be sufficient to finish the job. But who
would volunteer to be caretaker while the others went back to gain the
glory? It was a difficult problem, but one that would have to be
solved very soon.
As far as supplies were concerned, we had little to worry about. The
automatic freight rockets could keep us provided with air, food, and
water for as long as we wished to stay on the moon. We were all in
good health, though a little tired. None of the anticipated
psychological troubles had cropped up, perhaps because we had all been
so busy on tasks of absorbing interest that we had had no time to worry
about going crazy. But, of course, we all looked forward to getting
back to Earth and seeing our families again.
The first change of plans was forced upon us by the Ziolkovski being
put out of commission when the ground beneath one of her landing legs
suddenly gave way. The ship managed to stay upright, but the hull was
badly twisted and the pressure cabin sprang dozens of leaks. There was
much debate about on-the-spot repairs, but it was decided that it would
be far too risky for her to take off in this condition. The Russians
had no alternative but to thumb lifts back in the Goddard and the
Endeavour; by using the Ziolkeyski's unwanted fuel, our ships would be
able to manage the extra load. However, the return flight would be
extremely cramped and uncomfortable for all concerned because everyone
would have to eat and sleep in shifts.
Either the American or the British ship, therefore, would be the first
back to Earth.
During those final weeks, as the work of the expedition was brought to
its close, relations between Commander Vandenburg and myself were
somewhat strained. I even wondered if we ought to settle the matter by
tossing for it.... Another problem was also engaging my attention that
of crew discipline. Perhaps this is too strong a phrase; I would not
like it to be thought that a mutiny ever seemed probable. But all my
men were now a little abstracted and liable to be found, if off duty,
scribbling furiously in corners. I knew exactly what was going on, for
I was involved in it myself. There wasn't a human being on the moon
who had not sold exclusive rights to some newspaper or magazine, and we
were all haunted by approaching deadlines. The radio-teletype to Earth
was in continuous operation, sending tens of thousands of words being
dictated over the speech circuits.
It was Professor Williams, our very practical-minded astronomer, who
came to me one day with the answer to my main problem.
"Skipper," he said balancing himself precariously on the
all-too-collapsible table I used as my working desk inside the igloo,
"there's no technical reason, is there, why we should get back to Earth
first?"
"No," I said, "merely a matter of fame, fortune, and seeing our
families again. But I admit those aren't technical reasons. We could
stay here another year if Earth kept sending supplies. If you want to
suggest that, however, I shall take great pleasure in strangling
you."
"It's not as bad as that. Once the main body has gone back, whichever
party is left can follow in two or three weeks at the latest. They'll
get a lot of credit, in fact, for self sacrifice modesty, and similar
virtues."
"Which will be very poor compensation for being second home."
"Right we need something else to make it worthwhile. Some more
material reward."
"Agreed. What do you suggest?"
Williams pointed to the calendar hanging on the wall in front of me,
between the two pin-ups we had stolen from the Goddard The length of
our stay was indicated by the days that had been crossed off in red
ink; a big question mark in two weeks' time showed when the first ship
would be heading back to Earth.
"There's your answer," he said.
"If we go back then, do you realize what will happen? I'll tell
you."
He did, and I kicked myself for not having thought of it first.
The next day, I explained my decision to Vandenburg and Krasnin.
"We'll stay behind and do the mopping up," I said.
"It's a matter of common sense. The Goddard's a much bigger ship than
ours and can carry an extra four people, while we can manage only two
more, and even then it will be a squeeze.
If you go first, Van, it will save a lot of people from eating their
hearts out here for longer than necessary."
"That's very big of you," replied Vandenburg.
"I
won't hide the fact that we'll be happy to get home. And it's logical,
I admit, now that the Ziolkovski's out of action. Still, it means
quite a sacrifice on your part, and I don't really like to take
advantage of it."
I gave an expansive wave.
"Think nothing of it," I answered.
"As long as you boys don't grab all the credit, we'll take our turn.
After all, we'll have the show here to ourselves when you've gone back
to Earth."
Krasnin was looking at me with a rather calculating expression, and I
found it singularly difficult to return his gaze.
"I hate to sound cynical," he said, "but I've learned to be a little
suspicious when people start doing big favors without very good
reasons. And fragilely, I don't think the reason you've given is good
enough. You wouldn't have anything else up your sleeve, would you?"
"Oh, very well," I sighed.
"Y'd hoped to get a little credit, but I see it's no use trying to
convince anyone of the purity of my motives. I've got a reason, and
you might as well know it. But please don't spread it around, I'd hate
the folks back on Earth to be disillusioned. They still think of us as
noble and heroic seekers after knowledge; let's keep it that way, for
all our sakes."
Then I pulled out the calendar, and explained to Vandenburg and Krasnin
what Williams had already explained to me. They listened with
scepticism, then with growing sympathy.
"I had no idea it was that bad," said Vandenburg at last.
"Americans never have," I said sadly.
"Anyway, that's the way it's been for half a century, and it doesn't
seem to get any better. So you agree with my suggestion?"
"Of course. It suits us fine, anyhow. Until the next expedition's
ready, the moon's all yours."
I remembered that phrase, two weeks later, as I watched the Goddard
blast up into the sky toward the distant, beckoning Earth. It was
lonely, then, when the Americans and all but two of the Russians had
gone. We envied them the reception they got, and watched jealously on
the TV screens their triumphant processions through Moscow and New
York. Then we went back to work, and bided our time. Whenever we felt
depressed, we would do little sums on bits of paper and would be
instantly restored to cheerfulness.
The red crosses marched across the calendar as the short terrestrial
days went by days that seemed to have very little connection with the
slow cycle of lunar time. At last we were ready;
all the instrument readings were taken, all the specimens and samples
safely packed away aboard the ship. The motors roared into life,
giving us for a moment the weight we would feel again when we were back
in Earth's gravity. Below us the rugged lunar landscape, which we had
grown to know so well, fell swiftly away; within seconds we could see
no sign at all of the buildings and instruments we had so laboriously
erected and which future explorers would one day use.
The homeward voyage had begun. We returned to Earth in uneventful
discomfort, joined the already half-dismantled Goddard beside Space
Station Three, and were quickly ferried down to the world we had left
seven months before.
Seven months: that, as Williams had pointed out, was the all-important
figure. We had been on the moon for more than half a financial year
and for all of us, it had been the most profitable year of our lives.
Sooner or later, I suppose, this interplanetary loophole will be
plugged; the Department of Inland Revenue is still fighting a gallant
rear-guard action, but we seem neatly covered under Section 57,
paragraph 8 of the Capital Gains Act of 1972. We wrote our books and
articles on the moon and until there's a lunar government to impose
income tax, we're hanging on to every penny.
And if the ruling finally goes against us well, there's always
Mars....~.